


Contemplation

by aegle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Multi, Vignettes, early writings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7483053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegle/pseuds/aegle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of vignettes spanning the timeline of Order of the Phoenix. Remus and Tonks and their weird, developing relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contemplation

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and published in **2005.**

I 

He's just eased into the bathtub when she enters, smacking the door open hard enough to make it wobble on its hinges. Noticing him lounging in the water, she mutters, "Sorry, Remus," and proceeds to the sink, wiping furiously at the mascara trails beneath her eyes. No "Oh, Merlin, didn't know you were in here!" or gasps or blushes, just "Sorry, Remus." He stares at her for a moment, observing the washcloth war she's waging on her face, and says finally, "Bad night, I take it." 

"Bloody marvelous, actually," she grunts. Scrub, scrub goes the washrag, and she frowns deeply at her reflection, letting out a noise of irritation. "Didn't mean to barge in on you like that." Scrub scrub. "I think the other loo's got a ghoul. Cheeky one, too. Grabbed my bum the other day."

Remus, head resting against the tub, doesn't know how to respond and merely murmurs, "Oh."

Seemingly satisfied, Tonks wrings out the rag and drapes it over the faucet. She laughs wryly. "Serves me right. Never let anyone named Tony with two earrings and a fondness for Irish whiskey take you clubbing."

"I'll keep it in mind," Remus replies, beginning to wonder exactly how long she's planning on staying. "Erm, Tonks, these bubbles aren't going to last forever, you know." He gestures toward the foam evaporating in front of him, and her mouth breaks out into a grin, cheeks still red from her earlier assault.

"Right. Sorry." A wink. Cheeriness regained. "Leave you to your bath, then." One knock into the doorframe later, she's gone, and he leans back, closing his eyes. "Jesus."

II 

"Can I borrow this?" 

He looks up from the desk to see her standing in the doorway, holding up a copy of _On the Road_. Her hair is brown today. Not chestnut or honey, just brown. Taking off his reading glasses, he tosses them lightly onto the _Prophet_ , nodding.

"Mm, and I suspect it will be returned with tea stains on the pages." He gives her a smile--one of the few she's seen from him--and adds, "You don't have to ask, you know." Later he sees her in the drawing room, curled up with his book while Sirius stirs sparks in the fire, and contemplates. Contemplating Nymphadora, he decides, could be habit-forming.

III 

She hands him a plate of toast on a Wednesday morning before heading to the Ministry. No butter, just jam. She's been observing him, and he hasn't noticed until now. 

"What do you think?" She wiggles her eyebrows toward her key-lime hair, worn short and glaringly out of place in the kitchen of Number Twelve.

"I liked it better orange," he says simply, and she looks at Sirius, who is in One Of His Moods. He's sitting at the table, sipping at tea with a dark expression, and doesn't offer much support.

"Orange doesn't go with Auror robes," she sighs, lifting a sleeve and waggling it a bit.

"Oh, right, of course. Green is certainly preferable." She smacks him lightly on the arm as he takes a seat, and Sirius eyes them silently from behind a blue mug.

IV 

Sirius has his bedroom window open, and he's blowing smoke from a cigarette into the evening air. Surprising how old habits come back so quickly, Remus thinks, as he heads down the hall. Kingsley had taken pity on him, after noticing the way Sirius's eyes would follow the wizard's hands whenever he pulled a pack from his pocket. The smoke has bitter tang to it, dueling with the musty smell of the house that no amount of cleaning or scrubbing will banish. Sirius motions to Remus as he passes by, and stubs out the cigarette on the windowsill, leaving ash on the pale wood. He leaves his windows open nearly all the time. 

Sirius studies him for a minute, before folding his arms and asking, "You gonna' tell her you fancy her?"

"What?" comes out before he can think about it, and Sirius shakes his head.

"I wouldn't. Best to let that one alone, mate."

"I don't fancy Tonks, Sirius."

"Right. You keep saying that. Chant it like a bloody mantra."

V 

"What are you humming?"

"A song."

"You're such a prat."

"Thank you."

"Any time."

She leans over his shoulder, skimming the first line of the parchment he's holding, and slowly, he turns his head, raising an eyebrow. He sees her cheeks turn a little pink, and murmurs, "Tonks?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't read over my shoulder."

"Sorry."

"The Ballad of John and Yoko."

"What?"

"That's what I was humming."

"Oh."

VI 

"You don't spend very much time at your flat." 

She shrugs and holds out her hand. It's starting to rain. Neon lights turn her face a brilliant mix of orange and pink, and she glances at him with a quirked mouth. "So what's your point?"

"Just an observation." He smiles, looks at her for a second, and says, "Can't stand not being around me, eh?"

"Bugger off, Remus," she laughs, shaking her head. She starts to walk a little faster, as the rain begins to fall in large drops. A few minutes later, "I detest you, actually."

"Oh really?"

"Mm, yes. I'd run away from you now, but you're fast for such an old bastard." She hooks her arm through his, as they duck beneath a row of awnings. Cars roll by, splashing water up onto the sidewalk, and he tugs her over before she's sprayed as well. She laughs a bit, and then kisses him in front of a fruit stand while people scramble about with umbrellas and newspapers to beat the downpour. He kisses back.

VII 

Saturday night, and she's not out. Instead, she's fallen asleep on one of the parlor's old and tattered sofas, one arm dangling to the floor. After the meeting had ended, some had stayed around, mainly to offer Sirius some outside company. A few hands of cards later, and several glasses of brandy, the house had gone silent again. He touches her shoulder, and she stirs, mumbling. 

"You'd hate me in the morning, if I let you sleep on this thing." She opens her eyes, a little disoriented, and he moves to let her sit up. She groans, and mutters, "Can I sleep here tonight?"

"Yeah, of course. There's a bedroom--"

Standing, she yawns, and leans into him a bit. "Would it be all right if I slept with you? Beside you? I hate this house, and I can never get to sleep." He doesn't say anything and she murmurs into his jumper, "It's just that you smell lovely, and you're so warm--"

"It's all right, Tonks."

VIII 

She's not kissed him since that night at the market, three weeks ago, and she hasn't dropped by the house in a few days. Sirius hasn't brought it up, and for once, he isn't complaining about idling in the old manor. Remus taps the end of a quill against his lips, and leans back in his chair, contemplating Nymphadora. She'd slept next to him peacefully, her trusting hand barely brushing his, and when he'd woken she'd been gone. He can still smell her on his pillows.

IX 

"Happy Christmas." 

She says it as she slips into the hall, away from the raucous laughter in the drawing room. Here it is dark, quiet, uncomfortable. Without the lights and fire, the words sound more like an apology than a holiday expression.

He's been holding a wad of crumpled wrapping paper--a half-hearted attempt to control the chaos raging in the other room--and he feels a bit more than absurd, glancing down at the cheery griffin print. If it were any other time, he'd be wondering who the hell would pick out this paper, but it's not, and she's standing there waiting on a response, his response, biting her lower lip with her hands behind her back. She looks very young, and he feels very old, and all he can say is "Happy Christmas, Tonks."

X 

"I love the market. It's brilliant." February, and she's trying to move past awkwardness. All of these attempts, the shared errands, the time spent at Number Twelve--it's her way of making things normal again. Not quite lovers, more than friends. He wonders idly what _normal_ is. Her habit of slipping into bed with him to sleep at night is certainly curious. 

She inspects an apple, turning it sideways in her hand and glancing up at him with a small smile. "You see, here I am, here you are, and all of these people have no idea who we are."

Rather fortunately, he thinks, as they stroll past a stacked-vegetable display.

She continues, "You see that lady over there at the deli? Never seen her before in my life. She could be a Muggle, could be a witch. Point is, we all make little assumptions about each other. Only delinquents have blue hair and the like. But we could be anyone to her. Mates, spouses, lovers, co-workers. I could be a thief. An addict. A lovely girl. All up to her, really."

"Or we could be background. She's far too immersed in that ham to care."

XI 

He's sitting in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling and listening to _Blue Turns to Grey_. These times, hours and days spent in the empty house, are what he hates most, as it allows him to think. More accurately, it forces him to think. He wishes for an assignment, something to break the monotony of a March afternoon, but instead all he hears is the low groan of an opening door. And of course, of course, it is her.

She sticks her head around the dark wooden frame, all tangerine hair and wide eyes, and says, "Take me to the beach."

"Sod off. It's cold out."

"Then you can lend me your jumper. Come on."

XII 

"Coffee or tea?" she murmurs, prodding him in the back with a finger. 

He groans. "Leave me to die in peace, woman."

"Tea? Excellent choice. Be up in a bit."

He stretches his arms out in the bed, now overly-aware of the fact that he is human again and therefore completely naked. Even more aware, when his skin turns to gooseflesh from the chill, that the sheet isn't covering much. But he decides he cannot be bollocksed about such things as dignity right now and closes his eyes against the sliver of light filtering in through the curtains. And downstairs, in the kitchen, Tonks is making tea.

XIII 

Water is splashing against tile and skin when she pulls open the shower door. It's too hot and too foggy, and for a moment, he can only see a dark outline, but then the door has closed again and she's breaking all of the rules because she's kissing him. It's not harmless, like the "thank-you's" and "feel better's" and that kiss-at-the-market; no, she's invaded his space and now he has her against the cool wall and he doesn't know who is the one moaning. It's not sharing a bed on lonely nights or sitting knee to knee on a sofa, it's sex in a shower in Grimmauld Place, with Sirius down the hall and probably hearing every sound. And "Remus," she says, " _Remus._ "

XIV 

It's a poor funeral, really. A few Order members, wind, and rain. They cannot draw attention, after all. Sirius's death could become a topic of much talk, and having to explain it to an inquiring public would have been tiresome for any of those gathered around the empty grave. Molly Weasley is crying--most likely not about Sirius, he thinks, but at this evidence of mortality--Tonks is over by a haggard-looking tree, fighting very hard not to vomit, and all he can do is stare and stare and stare. 

Afterward they will go back to Number Twelve, and he will slip upstairs with Tonks, and let her cry there, because she doesn't want to be around everyone downstairs. He'll murmur assurances that he knows are lies, and she'll drag him into the bed, both of them trying to feel something other than grief.

XV 

He finds Sirius's cigarettes two weeks later, after a venture into the quiet room. It's summer: warm, and bright, and glaring, and he could--should--be out doing so many other things. But he props up one knee and sits on the wide ledge, lighting one from the pack and knowing it's going to be stale and horrible. He doesn't care. It's been over a decade since he's smoked, and he coughs, initially, but that too goes away after a while. Tonks may stop by later in the day, and they may walk down to the dilapidated old diner several blocks away, or perhaps just stay in and tangle up the white sheets, but that's not for a few hours, and so he can sit here in the sunlight and grieve in his own, silent little way.


End file.
